14 October 2013

I met the new Head of the Security
Department of my company for the first time today. We crossed paths whilst we
were inspecting an office refurbishment that our mutual Employer is undertaking.
The Security team had been sent over to guard a consignment of chairs that had
been received from Malaysia and rolls of carpet that had been delivered from
Mexico.

The new Head of our Security
Team is English and he is an ex-policeman. His name is Melvin and he was once a
London Copper.

He was a Plod.

He was the Old Bill.

There are interestingly a
number of different names by which policemen are referred. I have already noted
a couple but I could also add the Fuzz.

In fact I will add it.

The Fuzz.

There you go.

Many people believe that the
origins of the term ‘copper’ related to the buttons that adorned the English
police officers jackets but this belief is unfounded – and the buttons were
brass anyway. The term ‘copper’ was derived from the Latin word ‘capere’ –
which translates to ‘one who captures’. It arose on the streets of London in
the very early part of the eighteenth century and the name stuck.

The term ‘the Plod’ was
derived from a wonderful children’s story called ‘Noddy’ that was written by
the delightful English author Enid Blyton. One of Enid’s characters in Noddy
was the village policeman PC Plod – who was so endearing that the English
adopted his name as a term for policeman. ‘PC’ stands for ‘Police Constable’.

The Old Bill is the term I
like the most and its origins are the most obscure. There are more than a dozen
speculative theories about how it originated but the one I prefer is the story
that it relates back to the reign of King William the Fourth – back in the
1830’s. King William – or Bill to his mates – laid claim to establishing the
modern British Police force and in his Charter he gave them a “Bill of
Authority”.

I like writing the Old Bill
and I like saying it too.

The Old Bill.

The term the Fuzz is American
and I do not really care for it - nor am I interested in its origins.

“Y’oright Melvin?” I said as
I introduced myself to Melvin the new Security.

“Y’oright” he returned.

This is a popular form of
greeting amongst the English. I speak this English of the English well for I am
immersed amongst them in my day-to-day work life. “Y’Oright” is basically
asking “are you alright?” – but rather than answering the question you ask it
back.

Answering a question with a
question is always annoying and I will not even pretend to understand it, but I
accept it as just being one of those things that the English do.

“So I see that the carpet has finally arrived from Mexico” I asked of one of the contractors at the site.

“Underlay” Melvin
interjected.

“Nice one mate” I said.

His response was brilliant
and I liked him already.

“So where were you in your previous job Melvin?” I enquired.

“I was in Qatar innit?”

Some of the English use – and
indeed misuse the term “innit”. I come across it often and I occasionally adopt
it myself with the English.

It amuses me.

“Innit?” It is basically
asking the question “Isn’t it?”

“Qatar innit?” I enquired of Melvin

“Y’oright” he replied.

“Y’oright” has great
flexibility amongst some of the English and it can also be used as an
affirmation.

“Qatar y’oright innit?” I
threw back at Melvin.

He nodded his head in agreement.

This was excellent.

“And you were in the Old Bill before that?’ I asked.

I knew this because I had
been briefed on Melvin and his appointment some weeks ago.

“For twenny free years” Melvin
responded.

Some of the English drop the
letter ‘t’ from the middle of words and they replace the letter ‘th’ with ‘f’.
It is quite easy to understand when you get used to it although the spell check
function on my computer does not like it.

It does not like it at all.

“Did you ‘ave to wear one of vose funny ‘ats Melvin?” I asked.

You will note that I was
speaking colloquially here and adopting some of the English ways. In this
instance it is by replacing the ‘th’ with a ‘v’ and dropping the ‘h’.

I do this simply because I
like it. I do notoffer nor do I feel compelled
to offer up any other explanation.

“Only on special occasions”

The funny hats I am referring
to are called ‘custodian helmets’ and they were introduced to the London
Metropolitan Police Force in 1863. They are conical in shape and have chin
straps and a badge on the front of them.

I told Melvin that I liked
the custodian helmets.

“I like ‘em too”

I informed Melvin that I was
conversant with British law and was aware that there was jurisdiction that
allowed for a pregnant woman to urinate anywhere that they chose to in the city
of London – including into the helmet or cap of a policeman. He seemed
impressed with my knowledge of this law.

“Not everyone knows that innit”
he told me.

“In your years in the Old Bill did any pregnant woman wee into your
helmet Melvin?” I asked.

“Innit?” I added.

“Vey did not” he replied.

Some may not believe that
this is an actual law but I assure you that it is. Look it up yourself.

I asked Melvin what it was
that he did in Qatar and he told me that he was the Head of Security for a
company that was involved in the construction of Soccer stadiums for the 2022
World Cup. I asked Melvin why he left.

“It was ‘orrible vere”

It is ‘orrible vere.

I have been to Qatar and the
heat and rudeness of the natives is intolerable. Qatar’s treatment of their
foreign workers is nothing short of a disgrace. I have no idea why they were
awarded the World Cup but the human rights abuses that have and continue to
occur there are an abomination.

They really are.

I told Melvin that I was
aware that in the past six weeks alone fourty four Nepalese workers had died on
World Cup construction projects.I told
him that this equated to more than one death per day.

I informed Melvin that the
British Newspaper “The Guardian” recently published an expose on this atrocity
and they reported allegations of ‘a chain of exploitation’. Melvin told me that
he knew this and more and I could tell by the way that he was shaking his head
that he felt as disgusted by this as I did.

I told our new Head of
Security that I have many Nepalese friends and that I am acutely aware that
nearly one quarter of Nepal’s total national income is derived from their
people sending back money from overseas work - and that much of this work is conducted
in the Middle East.

The Director of an
organisation called ‘Anti Slavery International’ was quoted by the Guardian as
saying, “these working conditions and the astonishing number of deaths of
vulnerable workers go beyond forced labour to the slavery of old where human
beings were treated as objects. There is no longer a risk that the World Cup
might be built on forced labour. It is already happening."

It is predicted that more than 4000 foreign workers – mostly
Nepalese – will lose their lives in the construction program in Qatar.

I told Melvin that I do not for the life of me understand why
the governing body of the World Cup Soccer event had done nothing about this. I
also asked Melvin if he knew why the Americans had not yet invaded and occupied
Qatar. Melvin told me that he thought that it might have something to do with
oil and greed and corruption and I told him that I thought that he might be
right.

We both paused in whimsical thoughtfor a couple of heartbeats before I suggested to Melvin that
America had a long and colourful history of invading and occupying Middle
Eastern countries where similar or less atrocities have occurred.

We agreed that Qatar and Americans and the governing body of the
World Cup soccer were fuckers.

13 October 2013

I have been under a cyber attack
for the past twenty-four hours. A quite old post of mine appeared on the
Facebook Page of ‘Russians in Singapore’ and Russians from all around the world
have been launching into me.

It is brilliant.

The post was written quite
some time ago and it was very unimaginatively titled ‘The Russians’. I had all
but forgotten about it and it was a very simple piece describing a night out
with some Russian friends of mine. There was much vodka and mirth - and vodka –
on this night out – and there was no malice at all in the article. No harm or
insult was intended. There has however been a Revolution of sorts.

A Russian revolution.

Let me say now that I did not
put the post ‘The Russians’ on the ‘Russians in Singapore’ Facebook page. Some
Russian did and he – or she – said they thought it was funny.

Others did not.

I was alerted to the viral
state of the Post as my Inbox suddenly swelled with messages.

I was quite surprised.

When I went to the ‘Russians
in Singapore’ Facebook page I saw that I was also under attack there – not by
everyone mind you - but a few Russians were revolting. I had to re-read my
article to make sure that I had not directly insulted anyone – as I sometimes
do – but in this instance I had not.

Not in my opinion anyway.

I was a bit concerned so I rang
some of my Russian friends here in Singapore and they all seemed to be aware of
the post. All of them laughed and told me not to worry. They told me that most
Russians had a sense of humour but some did not.

I told them that it was the
same for Australians.

Some comments on the post
were directly derogatory, a few others were supportive -and some were just plain
cryptic. Some were also Cyrillic – which is the written Russian language – so
they were both cryptic and Cyrillic. One lady asked me whether all Australians
abbreviated Russian names and she cited the name Pav by example. Pav is the
shortened name for Pavel – and I replied that this was indeed a common thing
for we Australians.

I rang my friend Vlad – which
is a shortened version of the name Vladimir – not to get his opinion but to see
if he would be prepared to protect me. A Russian man named Viktor seemed to
take great affront at my post ‘The Russians’ and he wrote me an email saying he
was going to do unspeakable and violent things to me when he next came to
Singapore. I met Vlad a while ago in Singapore and discovered that he was once
an assassin and he was proficient in killing people with an icepick.

Vlad answered his phone on
the second ring.

“Hello Vlad”

“Da”

“This is Pyotr”

Pyotr is my name in Russian.

“Pyotr?”

“Pyotr” I repeated.

“The Australian” I added.

“Da Pyotr” he roared into the
phone.

Such was the volume of his
voice that I had to hold the receiver away from my ear.

Vlad is a very big and
extremely hairy unit. I had a huge night out with him and his Russian mates
down at Marina Bay a couple of months ago and we got on very well. I have had
lunch with him and his colleague Alexei a couple of times since our first
encounter and they are both very funny and likable men. I like them a lot. I
sometimes refer to Vlad as ‘misha’ – which is the Russian name for Bear.

It suits him well and he
likes it.

I explained the cyber attack
that I was under to Vlad and I expressed concern at the threats that I had
received from the man named Viktor.

“Do not vorry Pyotr I vill keel dis peeg eef he tries to harm you”

“I don’t think killing will be necessary thanks Vlad but perhaps if he
manages to track me down then you could either explain that I meant no harm –
or at worst scare him off”.

“Nyet Pyotr I vill keel him”

“Jaysus Vlad nyet” I replied.

We chatted idly for a while
and I think I managed to convince Vlad that I did not want the blood of Viktor
on my hands. I explained that I did not really want the blood of Viktor on his
icepick either.

Vlad asked me if I wanted to
come to the Marina Bay Sands Casino with him and some of his mates for a night
of gambling and drinking and I thanked him but explained that I could not as I
had a wedding to attend. I then asked Vlad whether he planned on playing
Russian roulette at the casino and he roared so loudly again in laughter that I
had to once more hold the phone away from my ear.

Russian roulette is a lethal
form of gambling that will not be found in the Marina Bay Sands casino. It is
played by putting a single bullet into the cylinder of a pistol – then spinning
the pistol and putting it to one’s head. There is a one in six – or a one in
eight chance of shooting yourself in the head when playing this game -
depending on the size of the cylinder. The term first arose in 1937 in a story
written by a Swiss writer named Georges Surdez,

Surdez invented the term –
but I have no idea why he deemed the deadly game to be Russian.

I have no idea at all.

I got a reassuring email about
my article ‘The Russians’ this morning from one of my other Russian friends
here in Singapore – who is exceptionally cultured and charming. I will not name
her, as I do not wish for her to be embroiled in any scandal – nor do I want
her to be threatened by the madman Viktor. I will use the code name Tasha –
which is an abbreviation of the name Natasha. Neither Natasha nor Tasha are her
real name – but she knows who she is.

Viktor does not.

Tasha told me that she had
read my post called ‘The Russians” and the various responses that were posted
on the Facebook Page of ‘Russians in Singapore’ - and like Vlad she told me not
to be worried about the Revolution.

I told Tasha that one of the
revolting Russians was a woman named Ox who had written, “I didn’t like it at all. Bullshit” and Tasha told me that the
woman was Estonian. Tasha told me that Estonia was once part of the Soviet Union
but it had been occupied by Germans and Danes and it was not a particularly
cultured country at all.

Nor was it Russian.

I told Tasha that another of
the revolting Russians was someone named Denis who lived in Moscow and he had
written, “Terrible. The old guy need to
meet some cultured and educated Russian group of people. He will be surprised”
Tasha told me that she had seen this comment and she had then looked at this
guy Denis’ Facebook profile. She informed me that Denis lived in Moscow and
that he declared on his Facebook profile that he was ‘Chief Executive Officer
of Never Worked a Day in His Life’. I asked her whether this was true and she
told me that it was - and we both laughed and questioned how cultured and
educated such a person must be.

I explained to Tasha that I
didn’t think that there was anything offensive at all in my article ‘The
Russians’ and she agreed that there wasn’t. She told me that my explanation of
this that I put on the Facebook Page of ‘Russians in Singapore’ was more than
enough and I should not worry about the comments of a minority.

When I told Tasha of the
threat of violent and unspeakable things that I had received from the bloke
called Viktor - she asked me whether I had informed Vlad.

5 October 2013

I am seated at an outside
table at Starbucks in Novena. It is one of my weekend haunts and I am eating
some very soft and delicious cheesecake whilst sipping on my second double shot
vanilla latte. It is late on a Saturday afternoon and I am nursing a sore mouth
after yet another bout in the dental chair where Derek – my dentist - has once again subjected me to great pain.

Derek has been undertaking a
series of root canal treatments on two of my rear upper molars for many months
and he has commenced the construction of a crown. I became convinced this
morning that the college fund for one of his many children must require
replenishment for I have surely paid a fortune to the man. In a moment that with the great benefit of hindsight I
now consider somewhat rash - I instructed Derek to simply rip the fucker of a
tooth out.Rip he did. The fragile tooth shattered into six pieces and my
jaw and gums were cut asunder.

I am feeling some pain.

Hence the soft cheesecake.

Whilst I was on my first
luke-warm cup of coffee and awaiting the arrival of my cheesecake my mother
rang me on my mobile phone. I knew it was my mum before I answered as I have assigned
her a special ring tone that sounds like an air raid siren.

Blessed be the smart phone.

I was expecting this phone
call as my mum is an avid reader of everything that I write and despite my
written pleas for her not to panic – she panics. She was aware that I have just
returned from Tokyo where I had some interesting moments with the godfather of
a Japanese crime family. The Oyabun was a very nice and hospitable man and I
was in no danger at anytime. I went to some lengths to explain this in my
writing – knowing that my mother would be reading.

“Hello Mum”

“Is that you dear?” she said.

I could hear the anxiety in
her voice.

“Yes it is me Mum”

“You haven’t been tattooed or had any of your fingers cut off have you
dear”

“No mum I have not”

“You are not working as a drug mule either are you?”

“No mum I am not”

“Are you sure Peter?”

“I think I would know Mum and even if I were it would be unlikely that I
would tell you would I?”

“Your father wouldn’t be very happy if you ended up in a Japanese jail
cell Peter”

“I wouldn’t be very happy either mum”

“I don’t think that you should be writing all this stuff down for the
whole world to read Peter I mean Daphne and the girls at the golf club all know
that your brother has got a very big penis thanks to you”

“I don’t know who Daphne is Mum and the fact remains that Richard has
got a very big penis”

I have been through all of
this before with my mum and she seems very caught up on the fact that I once
mentioned in an article that my brother is very well endowed. I did not write
about it per se – it was just a by-the-by comment. I since discussed it with my
brother and he was not the slightest bit concerned about me mentioning it.

He rather liked it in fact.

My mum also keeps mentioning
the name Julian Assange and she tells me repeatedly that she does not want to
see me seeking asylum in an obscure African Embassy for the rest of my life. I have
told her that this is simply bizarre and I am not disclosing any state or
national secrets to anyone and I have no association with Wikileaks.

None whatsoever.

I told my mum that I simply
observe stuff and I write it down.

I have also told my mum on
many occasions that I did not think that either the Swedish government or the
CIA would try and track me down on the basis that I revealed that my brother
has a very big dick.

It is to no avail.

For still she carries on.

I accept it as I mother’s
prerogative.

"What about that ghastly Russian man that kills people with an axe?""He uses an ice-pick Mum. What about him?""You shouldn't be associating with people like that - your father wouldn't like it""I think Dad would like him Mum and he only kills Danish dudes"My mother was referring to a man I met named Vlad. He is now a Russian Oil and Gas Executive but he was once a KGB assassin. He is quite a nice guy but he drinks a lot of vodka."You still swear too much in your writing Peter it is unnecessary""What the fuck mum?""That's not funny Peter""Sorry Mum - you need to chill out though""Don't speak your hippy talk to me Peter""Yes Mum"There was a bit of a pause then before my Mum asked:"You are not going to write about this are you Peter?" She asks this of me fairly often now."I might actually""But why dear?""Why not Mum?There was another bit of a pause before I heard something that resembled a sigh.

I chatted with my Mum for another quarter of an hour or so - where she didn't reveal too much. I eventually reassured her though that I was healthy,
happy and I was not yet a member of any Yakuza gang nor was I likely to become a drug mule anytime soon.

When I hung up the phone and
commenced the eating of my cheesecake - I noticed that there were two young
Singaporean guys who were seated at the table adjacent to mine staring rather
intently at me. Their table was overloaded with three laptop computers and a
very large folder of what looked like technical notes.

The guys were dweebs.

A dweeb is a studious and
nerdy type of person. There are many in Singapore and I like them a lot. These
dweebs were fairly typical in that they had bad haircuts, wore thick spectacles
and they looked as if their mothers had dressed them. They were likely very
smart - as dweebs often are.

“What’s up guys?”

“You are Australian?” one of
them asked.

“I am” I replied.

“We are looking at starting up a start up’ the other one said.

“We are thinking about using an Australian name” he added.

“Starting up a start up?” I
asked.

“Yes” they said in sync.

“What sort of business?” I
enquired.

“Data mining using cloud technology” the closest dweeb responded.

‘Fuck’ I thought – but I did
not say this. This was super dweeb stuff that I had no idea at all about.

None whatsoever.

“What is the Australian name that you are thinking of?” I asked

“Blue sky mining” a dweeb
responded.

“The song by Midnight Oil?”

“Yes”

Midnight Oil were an iconic
Australian band of the 1990’s. Their lead singer was a giant bald man named
Peter Garrett who left the band to become a politician. Many of the band’s
songs were about important social issues in my country including the plea for
native title to be given to the aboriginal people, environmental causes and the
atrocities of politicians. Many people think that Peter Garrett sold out the
band when he became a politician.

I am one such person.

“Not a good idea boys. Do you know what the Blue sky mine is all about”

I received a blank stare from
both the dweebs - which in Singaporean can mean any number of things.

In this instance I assumed
that it meant ‘no’.

I then explained to the
dweebs that to many Australians the name Blue Sky Mine is synonymous with death
because the song was about miners in a small town in western Australia called
Wittenoom. Many of these miners and the residents of this town died because they were mining a deadly substance
called blue asbestos. I told the dweebs that the ‘Blue’ referred to the type of asbestos
that was mined and the ‘Sugar Refining Company” was the owner of the mine – the
Colonial Sugar Refining Company. This company is better known by its acronym –
CSR.

I told the dweebs that many
thousands of miners had contracted and died from horrific diseases from digging
up blue asbestos in the 1960’s and a generation of families were affected. I
also informed them that both the state and federal governments tried to cover
up the environmental catastrophe that was Wittenoom and they had even removed
the town from maps. There is a much-photographed signpost where the name was
first scrubbed out – and then replaced. Wittenoom no longer exists as far as
cartographers are concerned.

I let the dweebs know that in
no uncertain terms that the Blue Sky mine was an abomination.

“So you think it is a good name for a data mining start up then?” one of the dweebs asked